


Holding on to the Floor

by Violsva



Category: Marvel, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol, Gen, Hangover, Light Angst, M/M, Male-Female Friendship, Mandatory Fun Day, Morning After, Natasha Romanov Is a Good Bro, Stag Nights & Bachelor Parties, pre-wedding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-03
Updated: 2019-08-03
Packaged: 2020-07-29 19:55:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20087878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Violsva/pseuds/Violsva
Summary: Bad Idea #3410: Wandering off to drink alone the night before your wedding.





	Holding on to the Floor

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted [on Tumblr](https://violsva.tumblr.com/post/186588462233/mandatoryfunday-okay-winterhawklings-this-week). (But Tumblr deleted the original because it is The Worst.)
> 
> For this image prompt:  


“Clint.”

Clint squints his eyes shut tighter. There is too much damn sunlight here. Wherever here is. Somewhere with Natasha, apparently.

“Open your eyes, Clint.”

That sounds like a terrible idea.

“Clint, as your best woman I had two main duties,” Natasha says. “The first was to throw you an amazing bachelor party.”

Right, yes, that was what he did last night. That had been great. Mostly. He thought.

“The other was to _get you to your wedding on time_, Clint.”

“Shitfuck!” Clint jerks upright so fast he nearly gives himself whiplash. “Bucky–”

“Put the towel on, Clint. What happened to your pants?”

Clint glances around. “No idea. What time is it?”

“It’s eight. You’ll be fine if we leave now.”

Clint secures the towel around his waist and follows her, wondering why he ever agreed to a morning wedding, and why they think it’ll take him hours to get dressed. He kind of remembers drinking here with Natasha after the party last night, looking out over the water, but he’s a little surprised Natasha didn’t get him home afterwards.

“I spent half an hour looking for you,” she says. “I saw you to your door last night, and then apparently you decided to come back here by yourself.” Her voice is sharp, the way that means _I was worried about you, asshole_. Clint’s response is automatic and probably unwise.

“How drunk did you get me, anyway?”

Natasha just sighs instead of tearing into him, though. “I didn’t do anything,” she says, as Clint picks his way across the hot concrete in her wake. “You kept opening champagne bottles and telling me you didn’t deserve him.”

The reminder makes Clint try to go faster, but by now they’re on a strip of sad yellow grass, and Natasha stops and turns to him, her face much more serious than Clint wants to deal with at this hour. “Why do you think that?” she asks.

“You know why,” Clint says, trying not to hunch defensively. Natasha shakes her head.

“Does _he_ think that?” she asks. “Does he think you don’t deserve him?”

“He thinks _he_ doesn’t deserve _me_,” Clint says, remembering a dozen conversations. “It’s so weird. I’m sure I told you that last night.”

Natasha fights a smile, or, no, she’s fighting _to_ smile as her eyes are glistening slightly. “He may live,” she says. “Let’s get you to the stylist.”


End file.
